


Shadow

by c_r_u_o_r



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Chronic Illness, Coffee Shops, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Soft Vergil (Devil May Cry), V is Not Part of Vergil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c_r_u_o_r/pseuds/c_r_u_o_r
Summary: When Vergil first sees him, he's not sure the mysterious figure in front of him is not someone's forgotten shadow. However, V turns out to be quite flesh and blood. And Vergil is about to use it.
Relationships: V & Vergil (Devil May Cry), V/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

You never know with these coffee shops.

Vergil only just jumped into one of them the other day to grab some doppio on-the-go before work. It was located next to his office, but he never really visited it. It was nice here, though. Walls colored in brown and dark-green, little tables, for two or three people mostly, a bar with the cash. He came up to the line, which has always been in such places in this time of day. Some people just appear to be too busy in the morning to make themselves a cup of coffee at home.

Only two tables were taken. At one of them, at the wall, with sofa, a middle-aged couple was sitting and chattering. Vergil frowned as he remembered he was only around five years younger than them. But he could never imagine himself like this: just sitting with someone you must have been in a relationship with for years now, in a cafeteria, at the table, and having a good little chat. It all was apparently not for him. So he looked away, at the other customer.

It was a young man leaning over the book, reading, as far as it seems, extremely enthusiastically. He was sitting on a couch, back to Vergil, so he couldn’t see his face. But his neck long hair was definitely crow black, and so was his oversized sweater. And his palm – which he took up to his lips – it evidently had bizarre tattoos on it.

Something felt weird about this man. Something that made Vergil focus his eyes on him longer than he definitely should. He didn’t look like an ordinary human being, he was more of a someone’s negligently forgotten shadow, and looking at him felt, out of question, peculiar. As if Vergil was a witness to an extremely intimate act, the one not for other people to see. But the forbidden fruit is always the sweetest. He doesn’t even know how he came up with such comparison.

The line came up to Vergil, and he ordered a double espresso. He payed as soon as the order was done and hurried to leave the coffee shop, not even looking at the mysterious shadow. Maybe just half a second, as he was turning around.

The next time, they met in a bookstore. A rather modern one, though, with white walls and this horrible artificial light which makes your eyes hurt. Vergil came to these from time to time, to check out the new acquisitions and add something to his home library. He’d always dreamt to have something like this in his house, maybe even with a separate room just for reading. As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one.

Young man was standing at the umber wooden bookshelf with classical poetry. Back again. Vergil even wondered if this shadow has a face. But he hasn’t ever noted to himself that he had hallucinations.

The shadow, however, had both face and voice. Young man turned to a seller, and Vergil could see his profile: tidy, straight nose, full lips; eyes, it seemed, were of color green. If only they had a better lighting. Black coat underlined his skinny figure, a green plaid scarf fitted his eyes. Vergil was standing at the French authors shelf, pretty far from them, so he couldn’t really distinguish a matter of the conversation, but he managed to tense his senses and caught the voice. If hearing didn’t fail him, it was a deep, low, and velvet one, like a maple syrup: bitter at the periphery, but sweet at the core. Vergil liked maple syrup. He turned his face to the books, ran his fingers on the counterfoils, and picked one that wasn’t in his collection yet. “Le rouge et le Noir", Stendhal.

The bookstores nearly ever had a line, so Vergil could easily purchase the book. Yet, he stayed at the door, putting it into the bag, and change – into the wallet, due to what he became a witness to an embarrassing, at some point, scene.

Young man with neck long crow black hair and discolored grass eyes came up to pay for the book, but it turned out he didn’t have enough money to afford it. Just a little bit. What a pity. One could have seen how enlightened he was as he carried the book to the cash to finally possess it, and how the corners of his eyes lowered when he heard the price and recounted his money. He was so embarrassed his cheeks blushed slightly pink, and one wouldn’t notice it unless they are extremely observant, and he flounced around, not knowing what to do. In the end he, of course, shook his head no.

Vergil sighed and took out the wallet he’s just hidden, approaching the young man at the cash. He handed a twenty dollar bill to the cashier.

“I will pay.” But his hand was put another, pretty material and warm, slightly shaking, hand on, and he heard a soft, deep, like a well-aged wine,

“Please, don’t.”

He noticed the way yound man frowned, and a wrinkle between his eyebrows was so sweet. And his lips, they were a little too big for his narrow, but somehow soft face.

Vergil handed the bill more persistently. “Keep the change.” The cashier took the money anyway, she didn’t care who was gonna pay and how will the other feel about it. Vergil withdrawn his palm and handed the young man his new book.

He looked back at Vergil with some sort of guilt and gratefulness. He hurried to looked away, though. But he took the volume, murmuring something that sounded like a “thank you" while running away from the shop.

The next few days were such a mess. Vergil didn’t even have time to take a breath, so much has fallen upon him. But sooner or later, everything – good or bad – comes to an end, and now he could relax and enjoy the company of old friends of his: the books.

Poor boy Hamlet was still questioning whether to be or not to be. Oh, you silly thing. Of course, to be. “He who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence.”

It stroke him like an electrical charge. The book he gifted to the young man with neck long crow black hair and discolored grass eyes. «William Blake. Book of poems.» That's why this author's quote came up to his mind. Vergil recalled every detail about that lost shadow: eyes, lips too wide, voice too low – though he couldn't tell how else he imagined it, – shaking tattooed hands and slightly pink cheeks.

Vergil slammed the book and placed it on the table nearby, taking a sip of his tea. He took a look at his hand—where the young man touched it. Vergil didn't like being touched. But he somehow forgave that flaw to the black haired shadow. That wasn’t the best way to call him, but better than nothing.

It continued until he learned his real name. Which happened, in fact, around a week and a half after their last meeting. From day to day, with few exceptions, Vergil found himself in front of a coffee shop in the morning, and near the bookstore in the evening. But there was no sign of him. Maybe someone found their lost shadow, and is now walking around and Vergil doesn't even know? This thought was ridiculous at its very nature, but it also made him angry at some point. He wanted to see Shadow again, though for once. For a brief moment even. He usually controlled the impulses of his, and it was strange now that he couldn’t.

Wind blew stronger at nights. It was almost winter, so the cold could take up to your bones, grab your ribcage so you can’t take a normal breath, and wouldn't go away until you come home and make yourself a cup of tea, or something more…warming. But Vergil didn't care about the weather, so he didn't wear neither a scarf nor a hat while walking along the streets from work. He did wore gloves, though.

He used a shortcut through a living area two quarters away from his house. Poorly lighted, some lanterns didn’t work at all; with a playground for kids and a parking lot; surrounded by blocks of flats from every side with little gaps for cars to drive in. He used it almost every bloody day, and never before he saw Shadow here. Until today.

Young man was sitting on a bench and feeding homeless cats, along with pigeons, which were afraid to come closer, but still attempted. Vergil stopped to check if it was really him in a faithless lantern light, or he himself was just delusional. But the hair, the movements – which were as if a little slowed down – they gave him up. The man smirked and continued his route when he noticed Shadow turning his head on him, wondering if he recognized. Hoping that he did, somewhere deep down.

“Thank you for the book,” he heard a moment later, and it made him stop. Think a little. Turn around. And see that Shadow got up, leaning on his umbrella, and approached him, leisurely, as if he was going to waltz.

“It wasn’t supposed to be rainy tonight,” Vergil remarked.

“I guess I owe you one.” Shadow, however, continued his line.

“Consider this as a gift from one book lover to another.”

“And still,” Shadow came as close as he could and not lose decency. “Allow me to dare ask you if you are free tomorrow evening,” he inquired with a smirk, that hit the white-haired man somewhere in the middle of a ribcage. That was not a good sign, not at all, since nothing stroke him there yet. Or maybe he just drank too much coffee.

“Depends on what you are implying.”

“Maybe we could have a walk. I believe a whole dinner in a decent place would be worth more than twenty dollars, and definitely more than I could afford… but we could certainly visit the coffee shop nearby.”

This conversation was getting more bizarre with every second. Something incomprehensible, obscure in its nature, stroke him in the same place in the chest, again, now stronger. These strikes almost made the strings of his soul sing. Quite a strange feeling.

“And aren’t you afraid I can turn out to be a maniac?”

“Are you,” black haired man paused, moving an umbrella from one hand to another. “A one?”

“Not today. You?”

Shadow chuckled quietly. That was the most delightful sound Vergil has ever heard, he could almost taste it on his tongue. Maple. “Even if I was, it wouldn’t be hard for you to..” he paused again, picking the right word. His fingers taped the handle of the umbrella. “Neutralize me.”

Another strike. That was certainly some sort of magic. Nothing felt the same since the very first day they saw each other. Vergil felt it, tasted in the air with every inhale, sensed with his fingers as he started his car, and with his whole body – when water flows touched his skin in the shower.

“Say what about…five o’clock? Near the coffee shop?”

Vergil nodded in oblivion, not really catching the meaning though perfectly hearing the message, and noted to himself to cancel the meeting he had at five tomorrow. And the one that followed.

He arrived at the meeting spot in time, but didn't found Shadow at the entrance to the coffee shop. He did, however, find him inside it, at the table that was taken by a middle-aged couple two weeks ago; it had a pot of real red roses on it, like every table. The Shadow was reading something, again, but looked up, most probably knowing he's being looked at, and gifted the white haired man with a mild smile, which apparently meant that he saw him and – probably – that he is glad. Vergil pushed the door.

“Have you been waiting for long?” he asked, sitting at the table in front of the Shadow. Young man put his book aside, and Vergil recognized in it the one he so-called gifted.

“I decided to come earlier to read a little and order us drinks, so that you don't have to wait for them.”

They were brought Shadow's order: cocoa with chocolate sprinkles and a double espresso, with a glass of water. Vergil frowned in surprise, looking first – at the waiter, and then – at the Shadow. The black haired man smiled at him again. You weren't the only one observant back then.

Vergil smiled back, with a little confused and distrustful smile. He didn't hurry to start the conversation, pulling his coffee closer to himself and smelling it. He looked back at the Shadow as he took a sip of cocoa and there was a little milk foam left on his upper lip.

“Where would you like to start?” Shadow asked, and added, regarding the way white haired man looked at him. “Our acquaintance.”

Vergil took a sip from his cup, lifting it along with the dish; the ceramic clicked as he put the cup on its place. “I'd like to know your name first.”

“I’m Vincent. But you can call me V. Dare I ask for yours?”

Shadow – V – now wrapped his hands around a warm and big mug of his cocoa – unlike Vergil's tiny little cup he could dry up in a draught. He drank a little bit of water from the glass.

“Vergil.”

“Like the Roman poet. Your parents loved literature, as I can see.”

“I suppose,” Vergil waved his hand, irritated. The conversation was taking on the wrong turn, he wouldn't like to talk about his biggest tragedy at the first date. Or meeting. Or whatever they're having here it is. He tapped the table with tips of his fingers while V's ones ran through the book as he was drinking his cocoa. The milk foam on his lip didn't go anywhere and was just refreshed and added up to. That was irritating, too. But not the usual kind of irritating. That kind of irritating you have when you listen to some song on a radio and it sounds extremely horrible but deep down you know you like it – you just can't admit it.

A minute of silence followed. V licked his lips – Vergil said goodbye to the milk foam, sighing uncontrollably. V looked everywhere – around, at the hanger his and Vergil's coats hung, at his hands, at the book, at his drink, at Vergil's drink.

“Vincent. Like a Holland painter.” V replied with a chuckle. Vergil smirked along, drinking his double espresso and washing it up with water.

“Wouldn't you like anything to eat, Vincent? V?”

“Oh, no, thank you, I'm not hungry,” V was patting the cover of the book with his fingers; Vergil caught himself staring at his tattoos unceremoniously, leaning his head on his hand and his hand on the table. He straightened his back, pointing at V's hand.

“Do your tattoos… cover up all your arms?”

“And upper body.”

“Oh.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I was just wondering.”

“Do you have any on yourself?”

“Oh no, not a big fan. Though I guess, they look good on you.”

And another blushed smile. V unbuttoned his shirt's cuff, and rolled the sleeve up a little. “If you're interested.”

Vergil felt an impulsive desire to grab that arm and look closer, which was strange for him, since all the way till this particular moment he remembered himself not being very keen on touch; he only leaned forward focusing his eyes on peculiar patterns of black ink on a milky white skin. It looked perfectly contrasted, in a way where contrast is rather seen complementing. Like a sweet-and-sour sauce, or a chocolate with chili.

“Do they mean anything?”

“Do you think any tattoo should have a meaning?”

“They do, usually.”

V rolled his sleeve down again, and Vergil was back in his previous sitting position: leaning onto the back of the couch, legs slightly spread, not in an inappropriate way, but in a way that is comfortable for both him and people around him. Person.

The questions alike “What do you do for a living?” or “Are you from around here?” weren’t verbalized that day. They were too straightforward and rough in their simplicity. Vergil felt like simplicity isn’t the appropriate word, or phenomenon, for Vincent. V. Shadow. “Simple” was, simply, not an option. A word “sophisticated” would fit here much better. Getting to know each other became sort of a game for them, and both accepted the rules.

They spent the rest of their meeting talking on distracted topics like literature, philosophy, and views on life. V did most of the talking, really, spicing it up with quotes, allusions, and remarks, some of which could even compete to be called funny. But what amazed Vergil the most is that V made few comparisons of him and Oliver Twist, or even mister Dickens himself. The answer on “Do you like ‘Oliver Twist?’” wasn’t exactly clear. It sounded like “I’m not very amused with kind of childhood he had.”

At some point of their conversation they were discussing solipsism, because Vergil remembered, very clearly, that V moved the book from one hand to another and touched his forearm saying “I have just disproved solipsism.” Vergil didn't find it funny, or maybe not funny enough to make a suitable facial expression. He clenched the fist on arm V was holding, but hesitated the slightest before pulling it out.

“You could have disproved it on someone else.”

“I don't really have much of an expression of anyone here to be able to do it as scientifically inquired.”

And somewhere at this point, where Vergil felt too disbalanced by irritation and pure pleasure of such company, he got up and suggested V to have a walk. And then they argued a little about who was going to pay.

“I owe you one, remember?” V asked mildly, counting his billets.

“Never mind it,” Vergil replied less mildly, but more steely. V's hand shivered.

“Please, Vergil. I don't want to owe you even more.”

“You don't owe me anything.”

“I can't do it this way.”

“Okay then, that’s what we do. I pay for your drink, you pay for mine. Agreed?”

His tone didn't imply any further argument, and V just gave up, nodding.

As they went outside they noticed it was already dark. It was, in fact, getting dark when they only met, but both somehow managed to lose track in time. V blew air out of his mouth to his palms, holding his book at the armpit.

“Where are we heading at?”

“I guess it would be better if I walked you home.” The answer made V blink couple of times awkwardly, and lower his eyes at the ground. He apparently took it personally. “It is colder in the evening, and you’re not even wearing any gloves.”

Vergil didn't know how he found himself making excuses before the black haired man. It seemed to have worked out on its own. V lifted his head and pointed the direction with his arm, nodding to that side, and smiled modestly.

At some point of their little walk, which was in fact, rather silent, V sneezed. Quietly, almost inaudibly, holding a fist at his mouth, which made him drop the book.

“Bless you,” Vergil replied automatically, picking up the volume and shaking the snow out of it. “I will hold it for now, put your hands in the pockets, they're already red.”

Vergil put the book of poems in his bag while V did as he was told, breathing out the steam cloud with his mouth. His lips were curved in a smile Vergil wouldn't like to share.

“Thank you for the walk. And the cocoa.”

They were standing at the same place they met yesterday. Cats crawled out of their hiding spots and clinged to V's legs; one of them pat its head on Vergil's ankle.

“Thank you for the company. It was one of the nicest conversations I've had in last few months.”

“For me it was the most delightful ever.”

Vergil smiled at these words, but between his eyebrows, there was a wrinkle. They said goodbye to each other and the white haired man headed for home, after, of course, making sure V entered the building. It was only in his own apartment that he realized the brunette forgot the book in his bag. Or Vergil forgot to give it to him.

Why would he even care? This, and many more questions popped up in his head already afterwards, at home, at a glass of whiskey – weekly tradition. Book V forgot to take was lying right here, at the table, and Vergil ran his fingers through the cover.

Vincent was, in fact, the best interlocutor out of his surroundings, though they had just one evening together. Vergil felt like he could listen to him all day long. He was sure V wouldn't run out of topics. Not only his voice was pleasant to hear, but also his words: they were so well structured, each on its place, perfectly harmonized. Vergil looked at the book; curiosity overcame, and he grabbed it in his arms, putting the whiskey away – the last thing he needed was to split something on it – and opened it.

The spine cracked, the scent of a fresh book could be felt in the air. At the flyleaf thewe was an carefully made inscription: “Vincent.” Quite a remarkable handwriting. Vergil took a deep breath and caught something else, besides the book smell. It was him. Vincent. V. The man who occupied most of his thoughts, unless he's at work, of course.

It made him angry. He was always in charge of things in his head, and always tried to control every single thought: he kept the unnecessary ones away as easily as people usually brush their teeth, he could focus on the neccessary ones as much as the hawk focused on the prey. And now, what does he have? An absolutely needless and only distracting, buzzing thought his brain apparently mistook for crucial, the number one in a list, and he doesn't really know how to fix the bug. And on top of that, he enjoys it. Enjoys thinking this unnecessary trash about what shade of green V's eyes are or how dried his lips looked at the street.


	2. Chapter 2

Something stroke him and made him tense while he was reading. He knew that somehow humans can actually feel someone else looking at them, without need to see that hypothetical someone. This ability had its bugs, like when you sit alone in a dark room and all of a sudden you feel – or you think you feel – a glance on yourself.

Now, however, he had a reason for that feeling. He wasn't in a dark room, he was in a cafeteria, full of people, whose chattering couldn't distract V from the book. Nothing could, in fact, when he was excited. But that feeling…it didn't go away. V felt that in a pit of his stomach, someone apparently tried to look through a hole in him. It was strange, that feeling, frightening and pleasant at the same time.

V didn't look up. He knew that if he did, the person would look away, he'd just scare them. Eye contact wasn't really appropriate in this kind of thing. So he just acted as if nothing happened, as if he had no clue someone stares at him, and then that feeling went away. It was still there, but weakened, and V ventured to look up. He turned his head back, but no one looked at him, just like his intuition told him. At the cash stood a tall, incredibly tall, white haired man, tapping his fingers on the bar, while a barista made espresso for him; V guessed out from the size of the paper cup. He looked closely: the amount of drink was more than a usual espresso, so it must be double. Oh, you shouldn't do that to your body, sir, V thought uncontrollably.  
And this man's body was…just fine. The coat he wore, it fitted his figure perfectly, making it look like a reversed triangle, with wide shoulders and slim waist one would gladly wrap their arms around. V took a deep breath, and came back to reading, when the cup was given to the man.

He noticed the same white haired man with his side vision in a bookstore few days after. V needed a book of poems by William Blake, and he couldn't find it, so he addressed to the consultant. His eyes reported of a familiar figure standing at his right shoulder, at another book shelf. V smiled uncontrollably, and followed the seller.

It was so embarrassing, that he didn't have enough money just the slightest, that V was ready to cry. Or black out, as his head started spinning more than usual. He gathered all his strength and shook his head no when he heard a metallic, sonorous and loud

"I will pay." The man's voice made him shiver, along with the whole situation.

"Please, don't." V couldn't tell how his hand turned out on the man's one with a twenty dollar bill. At what he heard an unconditional

"Keep the change."

The man's palm was warm and soft to the touch, though V only had few moments to enjoy it. He was handed a book, and what else could he do but to accept it? It was generous of this man, and V wanted something to be left from him "en souvenir".

Already at home, V opened the volume with his dried and still red from cold hands – and smelled the most divine scent in the whole world – the scent of a freshly printed book. He heard that there are perfumes that smell of a new book, but he considered it more of a deviation or a dumb marketing plan. V took his iron pills, and sat to read.

О Rose, thou art sick!   
The invisible worm,   
That flies in the night,   
In the howling storm, 

Has found out thy bed   
Of crimson joy;   
And his dark secret love   
Does thy life destroy.

V remembered his face. Recalled in every detail he could catch back then, in these fifteen or whole twenty seconds of head spinning and sleep walking and heart rate breaking the speed limits. Gray-blue eyes that looked so piercingly; he recognized the feeling, and shook as if from a thunderclap pretty quiet in the beginning that an instant later snaps and deafens you for a brief moment. A little wrinkle between his eyebrows: the man apparently frowned a lot; a cheekbone line that goes down gradually to the jaw of just a perfect width; and of course, lips. They were a little too pale, but so fleshy and even honeyed. V wished he could touch them, taste them, if they are really made of honey. At some point he thought that the man's lips were the softest part of his face.

He didn't expect them to meet again. It was just a routine evening: V was back from work, took a little rest, and went out to feed stray cats. He always did so, firstly because he wasn't much of an eater himself (which wasn't good for his health), and secondly because he had a big heart.

He sat on a bench, and few felines crawled out of their hiding spots, clinging to his feet; V smiled unconditionally. The food he brought was left nearby, and the animals started eating. V also grabbed some bread for pigeons, and crumbled it around the bench. But because of the cats birds didn't hurry to land and niddle the snack.

And there it was: that feeling, again. V smiled uncontrollably, once more. He did a lot of things uncontrollably. As if like, standing up and approaching the white haired man examining him and say

"Thank you for the book."

As if like, making an appointment with him for five o'clock in their first meeting place. The man questioned whether V was afraid he'd been a maniac; V only chuckled. Maniacs don't have lips so tempting, he supposed. Or maybe some of them do, he thankfully didn't meet much of maniacs.

The meeting went off great. The man was named Vergil, and it was probably the most suitable name for him. Like a Roman poet. He was utterly surprised when they were brought their drinks, and smiled. V found himself holding his breath as he looked at this, and couldn't help himself but to smile back. Those dimples, they owned his heart and soul, and he was so curious about what they were like to touch.

But Vergil was a little bit too closed up, as if isolated from others. Well, he wasn't particularly an average passerby, so it must have been hard for him to find someone he'd be comfortable around. Piercing cold seeped from his bones, and V's always felt too cold himself, and it was so tragic.

V uncontrollably touched him again – he didn't remember how he came up with this idea, but there they were again, touching one another's hands. V didn't know until this moment that ice can burn your skin.

He didn't want to say goodbye, so he walked slowly, as he, in fact, always did, leaning onto his umbrella because the bloody spinning head, and his hands itched from cold. Vergil lifted his book, and said he'd keep it while they were walking so V could put his hand in a pocket, because they were already red, he noticed them being already red. V didn't know such small detail could sink a hook in his heart.

"Oh my God, I forgot the book!" he groaned at home, after washing his hands under a hot water – and the contrast of temperature causing striking pain. At least this could sober him up a little. V walked to his bedroom and fell on a bed. Having a dinner would be great right now, because there were few things he could concentrate on at the moment because of how unreal and dreamy everything felt.

He couldn’t think of what should he do to get his book back. Not that he was greedy, but it was a gift, and it was new, and Vergil payed for it, and now he has it – which actually sounded reasonable enough. Besides, V wouldn’t refuse to meet him again since they didn’t bother to leave their contacts to each other.

He fell down more than usual; it always made him upset when he couldn’t solve a particular problem. But life doesn’t really care of one's feelings much, and no one would cancel the daily routine because you’re feeling down. So V gathered up and left his house for work.

There was a navy blue car standing at the entrance to the building, but V didn’t pay much attention to it. Or he wouldn’t, if the driver didn’t honk the horn and call him by his name.

“Vincent!” he heard a metallic and sonorous and loud voice he didn’t guess he’d missed so much. V shivered, and stopped, turning his head to the car.

He saw Vergil at the driver’s seat, and approached the vehicle without much thinking. 

“Hello.”

“You left the book,” Vergil replied instead of greeting with his head out of lowered window.

“Oh… just slipped my mind, I guess.”

He was handed a book and put it in his bag.

“And no gloves again.” V chuckled with a bit of guilt. “Climb in, I’ll give you a lift.”

“You shouldn’t, really...”

“Just get in the car, V. I don’t have much time.”

V lowered his head and took the passenger’s seat. It was warm inside, and the smell was nice. The seats were of leather, and also heated. V exhaled with relief, because his shoulders already started shaking from cold outside.

“Where to?”

“I’ll show you the road.”

Later on, when already at home, V opened the book and noticed a small piece of paper falling out of it. He put the volume aside and picked it. It had a phone number written with an extremely tidy and remarkably aesthetical, though spikey, handwriting on it. V felt like he won a jackpot.

Every moment they spent together, no matter how minor, V analyzed and ran through his mind for dozens of times. Every word, every pause, every head turn – he tried to remember everything, and looked in it for the answer to his question: whether he had a chance.

They’ve only known each other for not more than a month, and their meetings were too short to compare with time they spent apart. But there was no day that V didn’t recall the white haired man’s face, his manners, his dressing style, his snide remarks with that indescribable voice, and his coldness. Vincent hoped deep inside himself, that it was some sort of defense mechanism, and only because they were nearly strangers; but it didn’t go away as time passed. Thus, it made those little affection signs – as if picking him up after work when he was on the car, questions about V's wellbeing, reminder to take his pills – more valid.


	5. Chapter 5

The first time Vergil invited someone in his apartment was Christmas Eve. He practically ignored the holiday’s spirit, along with his brother’s calls, usually spending the 24th of December in his office, but this time was a little different. He gave V a call, asking if it would be okay to grab him after work; V always agreed, with his soft and deep velvet voice. Vergil caught himself thinking he’d like to wrap himself up in this velvet.

He went out to the break room to get himself some coffee. Two employees, Marcus and Luscious, were out there, chattering about, it seemed, their Christmas plans.

"You're inviting her to your family party? Never thought this whole thing between you was serious!"

"Yeah, well, she wanted this. I can't just say no, you know."

"Yeah, sure you can't. Hey, Vergil," Luscious asked as the white haired man was waiting for the teapot to boil. "What're you gonna go on Christmas?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"Well, we're throwing a party tonight, so we wanted to ask you to come."

Vergil hissed. The teapot turned off and he poured boiling water into his cup.

"You ask every time, and every time I turn the invitation down."

"We hope one day you'll say "yes!" Marcus yelled as Vergil left the room, heading back into his office.

In the end of the working day Vergil drove to the school where Vincent worked. He tapped his fingers at the steering wheel waiting for the appointed time to come; at six o’clock straight V left the building, letting some kids to run before him and smiling at them. Brunette sped up as he saw the car and got into it. In his hands was a small blue cardboard box.

“This is for you,” he said in a trembling tone and looked down, giving it to the white-haired man.

“As much as I’ve heard, presents are usually given on Christmas itself.”

“I don’t know if we’ll meet tomorrow, so I’m just making sure.”

It suddenly pierced Vergil that he doesn’t have anything to give to V. How rude of him. But why does he actually have to give something to anybody? He’d never done that, never even sent his twin a postcard. That was just ridiculous, to Vergil’s mind. He accepted the gift, though, unpacking it at precise green-eyed look.  
In the box, on a black velvet pillow, were two cufflinks made out of dark grey metal with blue line crossing them in the middle. Vergil couldn’t keep the smile away.  
“It is very nice of you, thanks."

“Just wanted to make you happy on this day,” he got as a reply. V took his hair lock behind his ear. Vergil, being under the influence of excitement at the moment, felt an impulsive desire to embrace him and hold him close for as long as he could. But he only closed the box, put it into the bag and started the car.

“Where are we going? This is not the road to my house,” Vincent said in a worried tone as they passed the turn.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m just going to disembowel you on such wonderful day. I always kill on Christmas." Vergil paused, glancing at another man’s expression: it wasn’t very much of a terrified one, but rather concerned and anxious. “I’m joking, we’re going to the mall.”

To be frank, Vergil wasn’t experienced in chosing gifts as such.

“Go pick some wine and food, I’ll be right back.”

V descended to the supermarket, while Vergil went to the very first shop. But he found nothing that satisfied him. Then, he entered the gift shop, where even with help of sellers, he couldn’t find anything more or less acceptable, unless a little gingerbread formed as the cat’s head. V loved cats, Vergil knew that.  
Leaving the gift shop, he remembered there’s a leather store a floor above, and V surely was in need of gloves. So he ran by the escalator, went into the store and after thoroughful picking and standing in the line, he got the new pair of dark green leather gloves with fur lining, and hurried to find V.  
The black haired man already chose a bottle of wine and a salad, waiting for Vergil at the entrance.

“I remember you love Bordeaux…”

“I asked for the food as well.”

“Oh, I supposed you’d like to pick something for yourself on your own…”

Vergil silently went by the aisles looking for anything edible; he grabbed the ready vegan noodles for V, and fried chicken with tofu for both of them.

As they were in the car, V realized they were going the wrong way again, but decided not to argue when Vergil drove through his quarters. After all, he bought some food and wine, and maniacs don't usually do that. Or do they?..

Vergil stopped the car in front of twenty-storied white building. The yard was decorated for the holiday and well-lit. At the playground were both children and adults, skating and playing and making snowmen.

“Is this…your quarters?”

“Yes. Is there any problem?” Vergil asked rather worried than mockingly. It was only now that he thought V might have plans for tonight. And he wouldn't bother to ask. Again, how rude.

“Oh, no, of course not,” brunette smiled hiding the thrill, and wringled his arms.

“And, V,” Vergil took the gloves with the gingerbread out of his bag and handed them to Vincent. “This is for you.”

V sighed uncontrollably; his lips formed a surprised “o", his eyes added absolutely astonished expression. “Thank you so much,” he almost whispered and accepted the gift. Maniacs don't give presents to their victims shortly before killing them, right? It's just stupid.

«How about you try them on?»

V nodded and put the gloves out of the box. Vergil watched him pulling the leather onto his hands, so beautiful, aesthetically pleasing hands, and held his breath.

«They fit perfectly. Thank you again.»

They entered the apartment and Vergil turned on the lights. The hallway was rather small and went right into the living room. They took off their boots and overcoats and lleft them on a shoe shelf and a hanger, Vergil taking V's coat with a grace of a gentleman.

“I had a rather strange dream the last night. I saw a raven knocking at my window.” Said Vincent as Vergil poured wine into their glasses.  
“A raven…I suddenly remembered Edgar Poe’s poem. How was it?.. Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore–"

"While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."

They smiled at each other while taking a sip of wine.

"And how you find his "The Fall of The House of Usher"?" Vincent asked curiously.

"Mysteriously intimidating." He didn't know why, but Vergil's answer made him giggle. Or it was the alcohol.

“Even though many of his tropes are considered cliché…”

“He invented these clichés. Besides, I don’t watch many horror movies so I could be overwhelmed with them.”

A little silence followed. They were both more than comfortable with it, if not to say relaxed, eating and drinking, thinking in silence.

"People often think of swans as a symbol of 'forever love', but they seldom remember ravens," V verbalized his thoughts.

"You expected them to be that well-read? You think highly of them."

"You are."

Vergil lifted his eyes at V and looked away; such commentary embarrassed him, but also sounded flattering.

"I believe it to be a product of mass culture. The swans, that is. Their look is far more fitting for the postcards and Valentines."

"You're right. But can you imagine? One partner for the rest of your life?.."

"A luxury few people can make boast of."

"Truly. Cheers to that."

"I guess I should go home now."

Empty dishes – plates with spots of food left on them, wine glasses and an empty bottle – were standing at the washer. Both men sat at the table, tired, but in a nice way, and with their cheeks being a little red from the wine. Mostly.

"It's too late, and I can't give you a lift," Vergil replied standing up. He went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of whiskey out of it. And a glass from the cupboard.

"You can walk me home if you are worried."

"Or, you can just stay. You're not worried I can turn out to be a serial killer, are you?"

"Oh, no, no, of course not-"

"I shouldn't have made that stupid joke, excuse me."

"It's alright, I trust you. But I would hate to bother you any longer."

V got up showing his determination to leave another man's apartment. He knew that if he stays he'll probably start talking too much of things Vergil wouldn't like to hear. But he suddenly felt everything blacking out of his sight and leaned onto the table. In a moment, he felt strong arms holding his torso and sitting him back into the chair.

"You don't bother me the slightest. And you don't feel well. I'm not letting you go anywhere." The brunette nodded unthinkingly. «Are you here with me, Vincent?»

V couldn't hear almost anything through the tinnitus. "No…not reall…" he replied just as soon as things completely darkened before his eyes and he passed out of reality.

He dreamt of his embrace. Of being laid down in his bed, completely naked, and gentle, almost intangible kisses left all over his body. He dreamt of his sweet voice telling buskined words of love, confessing in every language he knew, whispering his favorite poems into milk white skin.

Vincent woke up on a rather comfortable, soft bed in a dark room, with the only source of light being a lantern from the street. He sat in the bed, leaning onto its back, and looked around. Almost blindly, he found the switch from a bedtable lamp and turned it on. By doing this, he was able to see the room's interior: walls of dark-blue with silvery stripes, a wardrobe made of some dark wood, sheets on bed of the same color as the walls, and a pretty fluffy white carpet; the last piece surprised him the most. There was also a decorative katana hanging on one of the walls. In few seconds, a door opened and V saw a tall silhouette with wide shoulders and slim waist, and spiky hair.

"I couldn't find any pills in your bag, so I rushed to the drug store," Vergil said as he approached the bed.

"Oh, that's very kind of you. I just ran out of them."

"Explains a lot. But I thought the seizures reduced in frequency."

"They did. But it still happens from time to time. Plus, I had a drink tonight."

Vergil hissed, squatting next to the side of the bed V took. "I shouldn't have let you drink too much."

"Don't blame yourself, it was my fault I couldn't stop when I should have to."

"I will make sure you do next time." Vergil grabbed V's wrist out of the blue, and black haired man's heart skipped a beat. "Your pulse is still weak. Would you like some tea?"

"I would, thank you. Black, three sugars."

"As you say. I'll be right back."

Vergil was back in a few minutes with iron pills and a big mug of steaming hot beverage and put them on a bedtable.

"Thank you so much."

"Stop thanking me, it's just the tea."

V looked away, swallowing, and put a hand at his face. «I'm sorry, it's just… you're the only one who's being so nice to me.»  
And this was particularly the reason why V wanted to leave. He didn't want to weep in front of Vergil, so he just took a deep breath and tried to smile while taking the medication.

"I'm sorry about that, excuse me."

"And stop apologizing, it sounds silly."

"Okay, I'm—I won't do that again."

"Great."

V pulled his knees to his chest so Vergil could sit down on a bed, which he did, laying his palms at his thighs as if he was ready to get up anytime if Vincent felt worse again. V couldn't help himself but to stare at the man in front of him – he was just too beautiful, irresistible for being looked at. Brunette's lips formed a smile on their own.  
If not now, then never, he thought, still feeling a little dizzy. They might never get another intimate moment if he misses the chance. Besides, it was Christmas. Time for miracles.

"It's also because…" V took a breath again and shook his head. His heart was beating way faster than it should. "I guess I have feelings…for you. And everything you do to me I value deeply, everything you say I'm trying to remember as detailed as I can, I'm not always able to do that, but I'm really trying, because I was hoping to understand if you had felt anything for me back, but I couldn't really say because I didn't know what I was looking for in your behavior, but it's okay if you don't, though I suppose our fraternity would be over now, no, fraternity isn't an appropriate word…"

He talked as much as he could, just to postpone Vergil's answer for as long as possible, his whole body was shaking and his limbs fell asleep. What about Vergil, he was rather baffled and just freezed on a spot looking at V; he didn't really hear what the other man was saying after the «for you» part. It was only when he heard that the usual velvet of V's voice shut that he returned to reality.

"Vincent…" 

He couldn't find the right words. Sure, the last thing he wanted is to lose V, lose his company. He had never felt so content, if not to say happy, with anyone or anything. But his confession…Vergil didn't know whether he shared the feeling V was talking about.

"Don't mind me, I'll just leave and never bother you again," Vincent said as he saw the doubts in another man's expression and urged to get up from the bed, but was stopped by a strong hand holding his wrist.

"Like I said, you don't bother me the slightest. I just don't think I can give you what you want. What you deserve."

The corners of V's eyes fell down and he looked like a poor homeless kitten.

"You don't feel well at the moment. I'm not letting you go anywhere until morning."

"Holding me hostage?" Vergil let out a quiet, nervous laugh.

"I will ask you nicely but persistently to stay for the night. You need to get some rest."

He was speaking so softly, almost whispering, and was still holding Vincent's hand. V remembered Vergil didn't like to touch anyone.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he thought. "What is all this sweet torture about? Do these signs mean nothing to you?"

"I will be sleeping in the living room, so you won't be troubled. Now," Vergil let him go and took the mug in his hands. "Make yourself comfortable and drink your tea."

He left the room, closing a door behind him. Left a heartbroken man alone in his torture. Everything in the place was screaming about Vergil: blue, his favorite color, as V noticed; asceticism and stern minimalism in the interior, the bookshelves, katana…and the smell. It was piercing his nostrils with every inhale. V looked at the tea he was so kindly brought to; the water surface shivered as a teardrop fell down his chin.

Vergil was frantically trying to think. Did he do the right thing? He hoped so. He didn’t want to hurt Vincent in any way, but he probably still did. And just one thought that the black haired man was in pain he inflicted ate a hole in his chest.

Was he flattered? Not the slightest. Angry? Yes. He realized that it wasn’t easy for Vincent to say it, or hold it inside, but why did he catch feelings and make everything fer more complicated in the first place?

But what he particularly feel about Vincent? The brunette apparently took a long time thinking about it, but what of Vergil…he always put it aside. And what made it twice as strange, is that it wasn’t the first time he had to refuse someone’s feelings, but definitely the first time it felt so difficult to do.  
“Please, forgive me,” he thought as he pushed away from the door and went for a glass of whiskey. It wasn’t exactly the Christmas he expected.


End file.
